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The room thrummed with life: the bright clink of champagne glasses, bursts of laughter, and the cosy crackle of an enchanted fire dancing in the hearth. Outside, snow blanketed the rolling hills surrounding the Burrow, muffling the world in a hush of winter stillness. But within the walls, the house buzzed with joy—noisy, chaotic, and wonderfully full, just as every Weasley gathering always was. Friends and family drifted between rooms, crowding the hallways and pressing against frosty windows, cheeks flushed and spirits high as they awaited the midnight countdown.
Hermione Granger sat alone at the worn kitchen table, cradling the remnants of her wine and savouring a brief moment of solitude, far from the relentless matchmaking efforts that had pursued her all evening.
“You need to get back out there,” Ginny had teased, giving her a mischievous nudge toward some forgettable bloke whose name Hermione hadn’t even bothered to catch. He’d been polite—perfectly nice—but painfully dull, his idea of conversation culminating in the uninspired question: “So, what do you do for fun?” As if the right answer might conjure a spark between them.
Merlin’s beard, Hermione had thought, forcing a tight smile as the exchange dragged on. This is bloody exhausting.
Now, she swirled the last sip of wine at the bottom of her glass, watching the liquid catch and glow in the firelight. The muffled hum of the party spilled in from the next room—off-key carols, boisterous chatter, and the occasional pop! of a champagne cork firing into the air. The air smelled of pine, mulled cider, and the lingering traces of roasted chestnuts, wrapping her in a bittersweet sense of nostalgia.
For now, the warmth of the kitchen was enough—just her, the fire, and a little peace before the next round of chaos pulled her back in.
“You too?”
Hermione glanced up as Charlie Weasley slid into the seat beside her, his bottle of Firewhisky clinking softly against the table. His smile was crooked, his blue eyes bright with amusement. Charlie carried a kind of weathered charm—like someone who had spent most of his life outdoors, chasing dragons and not caring what anyone thought about it.
“Oh yes,” Hermione said, exhaling through her nose. “Four cousins, three distant acquaintances, and one bloke who raises Kneazles. It’s a wonder I’m still clothed.”
Charlie grinned as he twisted the bottle open. “I got cornered by someone showing off their hand-built broomstick. Apparently, that’s supposed to be a turn-on.”
Hermione huffed a laugh, accepting the bottle when Charlie offered it. She liked that about him—no prying questions, no subtle digs about why she wasn’t dating anyone. With Charlie, everything felt easy. Uncomplicated.
“They’re relentless, aren’t they?” she muttered after a sip.
Charlie leaned back, stretching his long legs under the table. “Everyone thinks they’re doing you a favour. Like being single is some kind of curse we need to be rescued from.”
“They mean well, but it’s bloody exhausting.” Hermione shook her head, setting the bottle between them. “The worst part is that they just... don’t get it. I like living alone. Less pressure, fewer expectations.”
Charlie gave her a knowing look. “Exactly. No one waiting around, no one getting mad because you forgot to send an owl.”
She smirked. “Or because you were gone for six months chasing dragons.”
“Exactly.” He grinned, tapping the bottle with his fingers. “I’m rubbish at being accountable to anyone but myself.”
Hermione exhaled, leaning back against the chair. “Same. Honestly, most of the time, I don’t miss being in a relationship at all. I like the space. The quiet. The freedom.”
Charlie shot her a playful look. “So... nothing about relationships you miss?”
Hermione paused, tilting her head as she considered the question. The wine had loosened her tongue just enough to let her say what she wouldn’t normally admit—at least not out loud.
“Alright,” she said, meeting his eyes. “The only thing I actually miss is the sex.”
Charlie blinked, caught somewhere between surprise and amusement, and then his grin spread, slow and devilish. “Ah, the fucking”
Hermione laughed, more at herself than anything else, a flush creeping up her neck. “It’s true! That’s it. That’s the only part I miss.” She gestured vaguely with her glass. “The rest of it—dating, small talk, meeting the family ? You can keep it.”
Charlie chuckled, a warm, throaty sound that made her feel lighter, less embarrassed. “Fair. Can’t argue with that.” He tilted the bottle toward her in a toast. “To the important things, then.”
“To the important things,” Hermione echoed with a grin, clinking her glass against the bottle before taking another sip.
The silence that followed wasn’t awkward—it was companionable, tinged with the kind of understanding that only existed between two people who saw the world in similar ways. Hermione found herself relaxing, her shoulders softening as the weight of the evening melted away.
Five minutes to midnight, someone shouted from the other room. Another round of cheers went up, and someone began counting down far too early, earning a chorus of groans.
Charlie glanced toward the window, where snow swirled against the dark sky, and then turned back to her, his expression thoughtful but teasing. “Tell you what,” he said lightly, though there was an edge of seriousness beneath his grin. “If we’re both still single this time next year... we’ll date.”
Hermione blinked, momentarily thrown. “You’re serious?”
He shrugged, his mouth twitching with amusement. “Why not? No more setups, no more blind dates. And let’s be honest, we already know we get along. Plus, you know my family—there’s no escape from that circus anyway.”
She snorted, rolling her eyes fondly. “Oh, lucky me.”
Charlie leaned in slightly, that roguish grin never quite leaving his face. “And you know...” He lowered his voice just enough to be suggestive. “If we’re dating, there’s no reason we couldn’t fuck.”
The word dropped between them, casual and unfiltered, and Hermione felt a jolt—like a spark catching unexpectedly. It was crude, yes, but the sheer confidence of it, the way Charlie said it without a trace of shame or awkwardness, sent a shiver down her spine.
And, to her own surprise, she liked it.
She raised a brow, her lips quirking. “You’ve really thought this through, haven’t you?”
Charlie gave her a wink. “What can I say? I’m a planner.”
Hermione shook her head, biting back a grin. “For some reason i doubt that”
“I could have been scheming this for years” he shot back, grinning wide now.
For the first time that evening, Hermione found herself fully relaxed—no walls, no pretence. Just her and Charlie, a bit tipsy, flirting shamelessly, and not worrying about what came next.
“Tell you what,” she said, feeling bold. “If we’re both single this time next year, I’ll take you up on that.”
Charlie’s grin deepened, and he lifted the bottle in another toast. “Deal.”
Their glasses clinked once more, and as the countdown began in earnest from the next room, Hermione realised that, for the first time in a long while, she was actually looking forward to midnight.
And maybe—just maybe—to whatever came after.
The new addition to her team in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures was an unexpected delight. Andrew Whitlock, a wizard from Wales, arrived with a quick wit, a warm smile, and a genuine passion for magical creatures that matched Hermione’s own. From the moment he sat across from her at the Monday morning meeting—his sleeves rolled up, tie slightly crooked—conversation between them had flowed with surprising ease. They talked effortlessly about work, rare creatures, and even the labyrinthine policies of the Ministry. There was no posturing with Andrew, just a natural connection that felt rare.
By their second lunch together in Diagon Alley, as they shared sandwiches at a small café beneath the shadow of Gringotts, Andrew leaned in, smiled that disarming smile of his, and asked, “What do you say we grab dinner sometime?”
And Hermione—much to her own surprise—had said yes without the usual spiral of overthinking, second-guessing, or building walls she didn’t even know were there half the time.
Their first date was at a charming little restaurant nestled in a quiet corner of London, hidden from the usual bustle of wizarding life. It was perfect. The conversation never faltered, their laughter came easily, and Hermione marvelled at how comfortable it felt to be with him—like she didn’t have to analyse every word or gesture. The second date followed only days later, this time at a Muggle jazz bar Andrew suggested. He seemed to have a knack for finding these hidden pockets of the city, places that felt like secrets shared just between them.
With Andrew, things were refreshingly easy. He didn’t try to pry into her past or fix her. He didn’t ask intrusive questions about the war or how she spent her weekends, nor did he offer well-meaning advice about her relentless work ethic. Instead, he respected her ambition, admired her intellect, and treated her with the kind of quiet reverence that made Hermione feel seen. On their third date, she laughed so hard at one of his terrible jokes that she snorted, and instead of finding it awkward or embarrassing, Andrew just grinned and laughed along with her.
For the first time in years, Hermione thought maybe—just maybe—this could turn into something real. Dating with Andrew wasn’t a puzzle to solve or a game of chess where every move had to be calculated. There was no awkwardness or pressure, no expectations weighing her down. She began to relax into the idea, letting herself imagine what it might be like to be with someone like him—a man who saw her not as a project or a mystery, but simply as Hermione.
But just as she started to trust the idea, things began to unravel—subtly, at first, like a thread coming loose from a favourite jumper.
It began with the little things. Missed messages, delayed responses. Andrew’s owls, once prompt and thoughtful, became sporadic. On the day after their fourth date, he cancelled their plans to see a new exhibit on magical creatures at the British Museum. His note was vague, something about a “work emergency,” but there was a hollowness to the excuse that Hermione couldn’t quite place.
After that, the distance between them widened. He stopped swinging by her office to chat in the mornings. At work, he seemed preoccupied, as if there was something on his mind he couldn’t—or wouldn’t—share with her. And when they did manage to grab lunch together, the conversation, which had once flowed so easily, felt... different. Less open. More guarded.
Hermione tried to ignore the growing knot of anxiety in her chest, tried not to dwell on the gnawing suspicion that something was slipping away. She replayed their dates in her mind, scouring every detail, every conversation, trying to pinpoint where things had gone wrong.
But there were no fights, no awkward moments, no red flags—just a slow, inexplicable withdrawal that left her spinning. Had she imagined the connection between them? Had she read too much into the easy conversations, the shared laughter, the late-night texts?
By mid-February, their budding romance was already crumbling, and Hermione couldn’t figure out why.
She told herself not to panic. Maybe it was just work—after all, Andrew had mentioned something about a difficult case involving a Swedish Short-Snout. Or maybe he was simply one of those people who didn’t know how to navigate the shift from early excitement to something more steady and real.
But the rational explanations only went so far. The uncertainty gnawed at her, hollowing out the excitement she’d once felt. And worst of all was the disorienting sense of disappointment—the feeling that she’d opened herself up just a little, let herself hope, and was now being left in the lurch without so much as an explanation.
The ambiguity was maddening. She kept trying to remind herself that it hadn’t been that serious yet—that it was only a handful of dates, that she shouldn’t feel this... hurt. But she did. She missed the ease of those first conversations. Missed the way Andrew looked at her like she was the most fascinating person in the room.
And the hardest part was that she missed what they hadn’t even had time to become. It had all felt so promising—like something that could have grown into more, if only it hadn’t slipped through her fingers before it even began.
By the time she realised the relationship was over, there hadn’t even been a proper ending. Just silence, awkward small talk in the office, and unspoken words hanging between them.
Ron Weasley leaned against the Burrow’s kitchen counter, arms crossed, his expression somewhere between disbelief and exasperation. The scent of mulled cider filled the air, but it did little to ease the growing tension between him and his brother. Across from him, George sat with a grin wide enough to split his face, looking exceedingly pleased with himself, as though he’d just pulled off the prank of the century.
“I can’t believe you actually did it,” Ron said, rubbing his temples as though physically trying to ward off a headache.
George’s grin deepened into something far too smug. “I didn’t do anything,” he replied innocently, though the twinkle in his eye gave him away. “I merely... provided some useful information.”
Ron shot him a look. “‘Information’? You mean you threatened him.”
George placed a hand over his heart, feigning shock. “I prefer to think of it as a friendly warning.”
Ron groaned, already regretting asking. “What did you say, exactly?”
George leaned forward on his elbows, the same wicked glint in his eye he always had before an elaborate scheme. “I may have... implied,” he said slowly, drawing out the word like a cat playing with a mouse, “that if Andrew wanted to date Hermione, he’d have to reckon with the fact that she’s... quite close to our dear brother Charlie.”
Ron’s brows shot up in alarm. “You told him that?”
George’s grin widened. “I may have suggested—lightly, of course—that if Andrew thought he stood a chance with Hermione, he ought to remember that there’s a dragon handler in the wings. Just waiting for his shot.”
Ron groaned, running a hand down his face. “Bloody hell, George.”
“What?” George asked, as if his actions were perfectly reasonable. “I mean, it’s not a lie. Charlie and Hermione are close, aren’t they?”
Ron shot him a glare. “You basically told him Hermione’s got an almost-boyfriend.”
George waggled his eyebrows. “Well, haven’t they got that little arrangement? If they’re both still single by next New Year’s, they’ll—”
“That deal was made when they were drunk,” Ron cut in, exasperated.
George shrugged, unbothered. “Doesn’t matter. Andrew didn’t exactly like the idea of competing with a bloke who wrestles dragons for fun.” His eyes sparkled with mischief. “Seemed to decide Hermione wasn’t worth the effort.”
Ron pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering under his breath about George being a bloody idiot. But despite himself, a reluctant grin tugged at the corners of his mouth. It was hard to stay entirely mad at George—especially when his pranks, while outrageous, did have a strange way of simplifying things.
George noticed Ron’s almost-smile and leaned back in his chair, looking insufferably pleased with himself. “Just doing my part, really. Keeping things simple. I reckon Hermione’s better off with Charlie, anyway. At least he won’t bore her to death yammering on about department reports.”
Ron snorted despite himself. “You’re unbelievable.”
“Why, thank you,” George said with a mock bow. “I do try.”
Ron shook his head, still half-incredulous. “You know she’s going to hex you if she finds out.”
George grinned, entirely unconcerned. “Worth it.”
Ron watched his brother with a mixture of irritation and grudging affection. That was the thing about George—he was a pain in the arse, but he meant well. And, annoying as it was, Ron couldn’t entirely disagree with his logic. Charlie and Hermione were close. Hell, half the family had been wondering for years when the two of them would finally stop dancing around each other and just get on with it.
Still, Ron couldn’t help but feel a twinge of sympathy for Andrew. Dating Hermione was always going to be a challenge. She wasn’t the kind of woman who made things easy—and if you weren’t ready to match her wit and ambition, you didn’t stand a chance.
“Poor bloke,” Ron muttered, though there wasn’t much pity in his tone. “He probably never even saw it coming.”
George smirked, folding his arms behind his head, looking utterly at ease with his meddling. “That’s the thing about love, Ronniekins. It’s a bit like Quidditch. If you’re not willing to fight for it, you’ve got no business being on the pitch.”
Ron rolled his eyes, but his grin stayed put. “Yeah, well, let’s just hope Charlie’s better at this love thing than he is at keeping his dragons in line.”
George’s laughter echoed through the kitchen, full and unapologetic. “If nothing else,” he said, “at least it’ll be entertaining to watch.”
Ron shook his head, but deep down, he knew George had a point. If there was anyone who could match Hermione’s fire, it was Charlie. And maybe—just maybe—this time next year, that little drunken deal of theirs wouldn’t seem quite so hypothetical after all.
The Burrow was alive with noise—laughter, music, and the occasional explosion from the back garden, no doubt courtesy of Fred and George. The enchanted streamers swooped through the rafters like mischievous birds, while a cake in the corner kept changing shape each time someone glanced at it—first a dragon, then a Niffler, now a towering castle.
Charlie stood at the edge of the crowded kitchen, cradling a bottle of Butterbeer, watching the chaos unfold with quiet amusement. He wasn’t much for big parties, but for his twin brothers’ 30th, exceptions had to be made. And truthfully, the Burrow always felt more like home than anywhere else, no matter how much time had passed or how many continents he’d crossed.
He’d only been back in England a few days, having cut his stint in Romania short for the occasion. This time, though, for the first time in years, he hadn’t come alone.
“Charlie!” George’s booming voice cut through the noise, and before Charlie could so much as brace himself, a heavy clap landed on his back, rattling his ribs.
“There he is—our long-lost brother!” George grinned mischievously, eyes twinkling with mischief. “Now, where’s this mysterious dragon girl you’ve been hiding?”
Charlie chuckled, already regretting the casual mention of Natalia in his last letter. “She’s not a secret, George.”
“Oh, but she is,” George teased, leaning in with a conspiratorial grin. “You know how it works: if the family hasn’t interrogated her yet, she doesn’t officially exist.”
Charlie rolled his eyes but couldn’t help the small grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. He scanned the room easily, finding Natalia exactly where he expected her to be—standing near the fireplace, calm and collected, deep in conversation with Fleur.
Natalia Ivanova was impossible to miss. Tall and sharp-featured, her coppery hair shimmered in the firelight, pulled into a loose braid that fell over one shoulder. She carried herself with the kind of quiet confidence that came from a life lived in dangerous places—a quality Charlie admired. There was no pretence with her. Whether wrangling dragons or attending a chaotic family gathering, Natalia always seemed... steady.
“There she is,” Charlie said with a nod toward the fireplace.
George let out a low whistle, his grin widening. “Not bad, big brother. Not bad at all.”
Charlie shook his head, amused by the predictability of it all. He’d grown used to the Weasley way of assessing new people—loud, probing, and, somehow, always affectionate. Still, a part of him was pleased that George seemed impressed. Natalia wasn’t just another fling, not someone he’d leave behind when he returned to the dragon reserves. She understood his life in a way most people couldn’t. She lived it too—out in the field, chasing creatures most wizards wouldn’t dare approach.
With Natalia, everything was easy. No pressure, no demands, just two people who liked each other’s company. For someone like Charlie, who never quite believed in the idea of settling down, it felt like a breath of fresh air.
As the party surged around him—cheers, bursts of laughter, and an enchanted paper dragon swooping dangerously close to a chandelier—Charlie’s gaze drifted toward the kitchen.
He spotted Hermione, standing near the counter with Ginny and Harry. A glass of wine in hand, she looked at ease but still carried that familiar air of quiet detachment—like someone who belonged, but always seemed to exist one step outside the circle, observing rather than diving headfirst into the chaos.
It was something Charlie had always admired about her. Hermione never fought to be the centre of attention, yet her presence was steady, grounding. In a room full of loud personalities, she didn’t need to be the loudest to make an impact.
He gave Natalia’s hand a brief squeeze. “Come on. There’s someone I want you to meet.”
Natalia gave him a small smile and let him lead her across the room, her fingers resting lightly in his.
Ginny noticed them first, shooting Charlie a raised eyebrow and a knowing grin. Approval, of course—but also curiosity. Hermione turned next, and her face immediately brightened.
“Charlie!” she greeted warmly, stepping forward to pull him into a quick hug. She smelled faintly of lavender, and the familiarity of it tugged at something deep in his chest.
When she stepped back, her gaze shifted to Natalia, polite but curious. “And you must be Natalia. I’ve heard a lot about you.”
Natalia smiled easily, extending her hand. “All good things, I hope.”
“Only the best,” Hermione said, her expression warm but measured. Her eyes flicked briefly to Charlie, and he could tell she meant it. Genuinely. There was no trace of awkwardness or discomfort in her voice, just kindness.
For some reason, that kindness made something twist uncomfortably in his chest. He’d expected Hermione to be polite, of course—Hermione was nothing if not polite—but... he hadn’t expected her to seem so content.
After a few more pleasantries, Natalia excused herself to grab drinks, leaving Charlie and Hermione standing alone for a moment.
“She seems lovely,” Hermione said softly, her voice sincere. “Really, Charlie. I’m happy for you.”
He smiled, grateful—but also... something else. It was a strange feeling, hard to pin down. He should’ve been relieved. Hermione was clearly happy for him, and there was no hidden edge to her words, no jealousy lurking beneath the surface. They were friends, after all. They’d always been friends.
So why did her acceptance feel... disappointing?
Charlie shifted his weight, the familiar warmth of the Butterbeer growing heavier in his hand. “Thanks, Hermione,” he said quietly, though the words felt strange on his tongue.
This was good. This was what he wanted—someone like Natalia, who understood him, who fit seamlessly into the life he’d chosen. Hermione had nothing to do with that.
And yet... for a fleeting moment, he’d expected more.
It wasn’t rational—hell, it didn’t even make sense. But somewhere deep down, he’d imagined Hermione might care a little more. Maybe not in an obvious way. Just... something. A hesitation. A flicker of something unspoken.
But there was nothing. Just warmth, politeness, and a kind smile that told him she was perfectly fine without him.
Natalia returned, handing Charlie a drink and looping her arm casually through his. He forced a smile, telling himself it was enough—because it was.
Still, as they stood together in the crowded kitchen, the party swirling around them, Charlie couldn’t shake the faint, nagging feeling that something had shifted. Not in a catastrophic way—just a subtle, quiet shift, like a door closing gently somewhere in the distance.
He told himself it didn’t matter. It shouldn’t matter.
And yet, as Natalia leaned into him, laughing at something Ginny said, Charlie found his gaze drifting back to Hermione. She was still standing by the counter, her glass of wine in hand, chatting easily with Harry.
Content.
Exactly as she should be. Exactly as he wanted her to be.
So why, then, did it feel like he’d missed something without even knowing what it was?
Fred Weasley lounged by the fireplace, a glass of Firewhisky in hand, his sharp eyes scanning the room with a sly grin. The Burrow was packed to the rafters, alive with music, laughter, and the occasional magical mishap courtesy of his siblings. In the garden, someone shouted as a rogue firework shot through the air, sending sparks into the snowy night.
Fred wasn’t one to sit back at a party, but tonight, he was content to observe. From his vantage point, he could see everything—and one particular scene kept pulling his attention back, again and again: Charlie, standing close to the woman he’d brought along.
Natalia Ivanova.
She looked the part—tall, confident, a little too polished for Fred’s taste, with coppery hair that fell in perfect waves. She had the kind of presence that commanded attention without trying, which Fred supposed was useful when you spent your days wrangling dragons.
She seemed pleasant enough. Polite, poised, and perfectly matched to Charlie’s rugged, unpredictable life. Too perfectly, in fact. That was the problem. There was nothing wrong with her, exactly—but something about the way she fit into Charlie’s life so neatly made Fred itch with unease, like a puzzle completed too quickly.
She was convenient. Too convenient.
Fred took a slow sip of his drink, his gaze sliding toward Hermione, who stood chatting with Ginny near the drinks table. She was laughing, her smile easy, but Fred caught the fleeting glance she cast toward Charlie from across the room.
It wasn’t longing—not exactly. Hermione Granger didn’t pine. But there was a softness to the way she looked at Charlie, something deeply unconscious, like she wasn’t even aware she was doing it. Fred knew the look well—the kind of look people wore when they were waiting for something, even if they didn’t know what.
He let out a soft huff, swirling the Firewhisky in his glass. He’d seen this story before: two people orbiting each other, too stubborn or oblivious to realiz=se they were meant to collide. And now, here was Natalia—polished, perfect, and inconveniently standing in the way.
“Well,” Fred muttered to himself with a grin, “can’t have that.”
Fred waited, patient as a predator, until Charlie was occupied—engrossed in a conversation with Percy and Kingsley about Ministry regulations and dragon permits. Natalia had wandered off toward the drinks table, standing alone as she fidgeted with her empty glass.
Now was his chance.
Fred slipped through the crowd like a fox through tall grass, sidling up beside Natalia with a grin too charming to be entirely innocent. “Need a top-up?” he asked cheerfully, snatching the wine bottle from the table before she could reach it.
Natalia gave him a polite smile, though her eyes flickered with a hint of annoyance. “Sure. Thanks.”
Fred poured her glass, the perfect image of charm. But beneath the grin, his mind worked quickly. He needed to tread carefully—too obvious, and Charlie would catch on. Too subtle, and Natalia might dismiss it entirely. This had to be just the right amount of chaos.
“So,” Fred said casually, leaning against the table, “enjoying the party?”
“It’s been lovely,” Natalia replied, though her smile was tight. “Your family is... quite the crowd.”
Fred chuckled. “Oh, we’re a lot, alright. But you’ll get used to it—if you stick around long enough.” His tone was light, but the words carried a subtle edge.
Natalia arched an eyebrow, clearly not missing the implication. “I suppose we’ll see.”
Fred smiled, as though they were sharing a private joke. He took a sip of his drink, letting the silence hang for just a moment before he dropped his first little seed of doubt.
“So...” he said, as if the thought had just occurred to him. “Charlie told you about the ex, right?”
Natalia’s brow furrowed slightly. “Ex?”
Fred leaned in just enough to make it seem like he was confiding something. The mischievous glint in his eye was impossible to miss.
“Yeah,” he said, voice low. “Don’t worry, it’s not really a big deal. Just... a bit of a complicated situation.”
Natalia’s polite smile wavered, curiosity creeping into her expression. “He hasn’t mentioned anything about an ex.”
Fred gave a soft, knowing laugh. “Ahh, that sounds like Charlie. He’s not much for dragging old baggage into new relationships.” He paused, savouring the moment. “But, well... there was this one woman.”
Natalia’s fingers tightened around the stem of her glass, though she tried to keep her expression neutral. “One woman?”
Fred nodded, his expression both sympathetic and conspiratorial. “Yeah. Bit of a handful, to be honest. Completely obsessed with him by the end of it.”
Natalia blinked, clearly thrown. “Obsessed?”
“Oh, you know the type,” Fred said with a casual shrug. “Turning up unannounced, sending letters... swearing no one would ever understand him the way she did.” He sighed, as if it pained him to recount the tale. “It really put Charlie through the wringer. Took him ages to get over it.”
Natalia’s posture stiffened, her smile now more forced than before. “That sounds... intense.”
“Oh, it was,” Fred agreed with a solemn nod. “That’s probably why he didn’t mention it. Doesn’t like talking about it—too much drama.” He gave her a pointed look, his tone laced with faux-concern. “He’s been careful ever since. You know... about who he lets get close.”
Natalia’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Understandable.”
Fred smiled, giving her shoulder a friendly pat. “Just thought you should know. Always good to be prepared.”
Fred watched her from across the room, his grin widening as he noticed the subtle shift in Natalia’s demeanour. Doubt, planted and beginning to sprout. She was still standing by the drinks table, but now she looked restless, fidgeting with her glass as if deciding whether to rejoin Charlie and be the happy girlfriend or confront him about the ex that Fred had made up.
But Fred knew that wouldn’t be enough. Natalia seemed the type to push through discomfort—determined not to let one odd conversation sway her.
So, naturally, he had a backup plan.
He found exactly who he was looking for—Alicia Spinnet, lounging near the garden door with a glass of champagne. Alicia had always been game for mischief, and she had just the right amount of flair to make this work perfectly.
Fred sidled up to her with a grin. “Fancy helping me out with something?”
Alicia arched an eyebrow. “What sort of something?”
Fred’s grin widened. “I need you to play the part of Charlie’s crazy ex. Just for a minute or two. Make it... memorable.”
Alicia laughed, delighted. “You’re mad. But I’m in.”
Natalia was still at the drinks table when Alicia struck, her expression a perfect mix of delight and unhinged intensity.
“You must be Natalia,” Alicia said brightly, stepping closer. “I’ve heard... so much about you.”
Natalia blinked, unsettled. “Do we know each other?”
Alicia smiled, leaning in with a conspiratorial whisper. “We don’t need to. But you should know... Charlie always comes back to me.”
From his spot by the wall, Fred watched as Natalia’s composure unravelled. Her polite smile vanished, replaced by a look of disbelief and discomfort. She murmured something, set her glass down with a clink, and stormed toward the exit without a backward glance.
Fred grinned, raising his glass in silent triumph. Perfect.
Alicia sauntered over, grabbing a drink on the way. “That was fun,” she said with a wink. “You owe me one.”
Fred chuckled. “Worth every Galleon.”
And with that, he slipped back into the party, the mischievous spark in his eyes brighter than ever. The path was clear now—just a matter of time.
Let Charlie and Hermione collide.
Charlie pushed his way through the crowded rooms of the Burrow, his jaw clenched as he scanned faces, trying to catch a glimpse of Natalia’s coppery hair. The party surged around him, a blur of laughter, clinking glasses, and enchanted streamers swooping through the air. But all of it felt distant—just noise buzzing at the edges of his growing frustration.
He’d checked the kitchen, the hallway, the back garden—nothing. No sign of her.
Charlie exhaled sharply through his nose, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. Natalia wouldn’t have just left, would she? She wasn’t the type to sneak out without a word. At least, he hadn’t thought she was.
Something wasn’t sitting right.
He stopped by Percy, who was standing in a corner, deep in conversation with Audrey. “Hey, Percy—have you seen Natalia anywhere?”
Percy glanced up, looking mildly annoyed at the interruption. He adjusted his glasses, shaking his head. “No. I thought she was with you.”
Charlie’s frown deepened. “Right. Thanks.”
He moved on, weaving through clusters of partygoers. Bill was next—leaning by the fireplace, beer in hand, catching up with Fleur. When Charlie asked him, Bill gave a sympathetic shrug, patting Charlie’s shoulder with that older-brother understanding Charlie didn’t really want right now.
“Sorry, mate. Haven’t seen her since earlier.”
Frustration churned in Charlie’s gut. What the hell had happened? They’d been fine—laughing, chatting, enjoying the party. No arguments, no tension. He thought things were going well. Now she was just... gone?
This wasn’t like her. At least, it wasn’t like the version of her he thought he knew.
He exhaled roughly, dragging a hand through his hair. This is why I stick to dragons. At least dragons were predictable—they didn’t say everything was fine one minute and disappear the next without so much as a goodbye.
After another fruitless sweep of the room, he found himself beside Hermione, who stood leaning against the kitchen counter, wine glass in hand, watching the chaos with that quiet, observant way of hers.
Charlie knew Hermione well enough to know she’d probably already noticed Natalia’s absence. She noticed everything. She just didn’t make a big deal about it.
“Charlie?” Hermione asked, tilting her head, a flicker of curiosity in her eyes. “Where’s Natalia?”
Charlie let out a frustrated breath, dragging his hand through his hair again. “That’s what I’m trying to figure out. She’s gone.”
Hermione’s brow furrowed, concern flickering across her face. “Gone? What do you mean?”
“I mean she’s not here.” His voice was sharper than he intended, frustration bleeding through every word. “I turned around, and she wasn’t there. I’ve asked everyone, but no one seems to know where she went. She didn’t even say goodbye.”
Hermione’s expression softened, her dark eyes full of the kind of empathy Charlie wasn’t sure he wanted but couldn’t quite dismiss.
“Maybe she just needed some air?” Hermione offered gently.
Charlie shook his head, leaning against the counter beside her. “I checked outside. She’s not there.” His fingers tapped against the bottle of Butterbeer in his hand, a restless gesture he couldn’t stop. “It’s like she just... left.”
And that was what pissed him off the most. Not the leaving, exactly, but the way it had happened—quiet, unnoticed, like it didn’t even matter. Like he didn’t matter.
Hermione shifted beside him, her presence steady and grounding. “I’m sure it’s not personal, Charlie. Maybe she just wasn’t feeling up to the party.”
Charlie scoffed quietly. “Yeah. Or maybe I missed the part where she decided this whole thing wasn’t worth sticking around for.”
Hermione gave him a small, reassuring smile. “You know better than that. It’s not about you.”
Charlie let out a low, bitter chuckle. “Feels like it.”
He didn’t want to feel this annoyed—Natalia didn’t owe him anything. But it was hard not to take it personally. He’d liked her. Hell, for once, it had felt like something in his life beyond dragons might actually work out.
And now? It had unravelled just as quickly as it started—without warning, without explanation, without even a goodbye.
“You really liked her, didn’t you?” Hermione’s voice was soft, cutting through the noise of the party like a quiet truth.
Charlie gave a half-hearted shrug, but there was no point pretending otherwise. “Yeah,” he admitted, his voice rough with frustration. “I did.”
They stood together in silence for a moment, the distant sounds of the party buzzing around them like static—detached, irrelevant.
This was the thing about Hermione. She didn’t push. She didn’t try to fix things or offer useless advice. She just... stayed. Solid. Uncomplicated.
Charlie glanced over at her, appreciating the quiet steadiness she brought with her. She wasn’t the type to force her way into someone’s life—but somehow, she was always exactly where you needed her to be.
“I guess I shouldn’t be surprised,” Charlie muttered, more to himself than to her. “I mean, dragons make more sense than people, don’t they?”
Hermione let out a quiet laugh, and the sound of it pulled a reluctant grin from him.
“They really do,” she agreed, raising her glass in a mock toast.
Charlie bumped his Butterbeer bottle lightly against her glass. “At least dragons don’t leave parties without saying goodbye.”
Hermione grinned, but there was something deeper behind it—something Charlie couldn’t quite put his finger on. Not pity, exactly, but understanding. Like she knew what it felt like to watch something slip away before you could hold on to it.
They stood there together, comfortable in the silence, watching the party move on without them. And for the first time that night, Charlie felt a little of the frustration in his chest start to ease.
He glanced at Hermione again, feeling strangely grateful for her. She didn’t try to cheer him up or tell him it would all be okay—she just stood there, solid as a stone in a storm, and that was enough.
The party raged on around them, oblivious to his frustration, his confusion, and the weight of disappointment that sat heavy in his chest.
But at least here, beside Hermione, he didn’t have to pretend that everything was fine.
Hi Charlie,
I hope things are going well back in Romania. I’ve been meaning to ask—did you ever manage to figure out what happened with Natalia? The two of you seemed happy, so it’s strange that she just disappeared like that. If you ever want to talk about it, I’m here.
The party wasn’t quite the same after you left. Fred is still swearing up and down that one of his fireworks didn’t go off inside the kitchen, but there’s no arguing with the scorch mark on the wall. You know how it goes—another day, another mess at the Burrow.
Take care of yourself, and write me when you can.
— Hermione
Hey Hermione,
Good to hear from you. About Natalia... yeah, it didn’t go well. I sent her a couple of messages after I got back, but she’s shut me out completely. No response. Not even a "sorry, this isn’t working." Just nothing .
Honestly, it pisses me off. I thought we were good, you know? She didn’t seem like the type to just vanish without a word. If something was wrong, she could’ve told me, but instead, she’s left me guessing. It’s like... one day we were fine, and the next, I don’t even exist. I hate that.
But what can you do? At least dragons are consistent—if one’s angry with you, they make it clear by trying to roast you alive. Much easier to deal with.
How’s life at the Ministry? Any new creature disasters?
— Charlie
Hi Charlie,
I’m really sorry Natalia turned out like that. I can’t imagine how frustrating that must be. You deserve someone who doesn’t just disappear the moment things get real—that’s on her, not you.
Work has been hectic, though nothing as thrilling as dragon wrangling. You’ll laugh at this—we had to confiscate a batch of illegally enchanted Puffskeins that scream every time someone picks them up. Poor Harry nearly had one attached to his hair. Ginny’s been teasing him about it non-stop. I still have a headache from the noise.
Take care of yourself, and write whenever you feel like it. Your letters are always a highlight.
— Hermione
Hey Hermione,
I nearly spat out my drink at the Puffskeins story. Merlin, I wish I’d been there for that. I bet Harry’s face was priceless. Sounds like you’ve got your hands full wrangling chaos, even without dragons involved.
Things here are... steady, I guess. The hatchlings are keeping me busy, but it’s not the same without someone to share things with. Natalia left a bad taste in my mouth about relationships, though. I’m not in any hurry to dive back into that mess again.
But hey, your letters? Best part of my week. Out here, it gets quiet—too quiet sometimes—and it’s good to feel connected to something other than fire-breathing beasts.
How about you? Met anyone who isn’t a distant cousin or someone’s uncle yet?
— Charlie
Hi Charlie,
Glad I could give you a laugh! Harry’s still pretending the Puffskein incident never happened, but Ginny isn’t letting it go anytime soon. Honestly, it’s the little things that keep us sane around here.
As for dating... funny you should ask. I’ve started seeing someone. He’s a Muggle—his name is Tom. We met at a bookstore, if you can believe it. Things are going well so far. It’s... simple. No complicated magic, no wild expectations. I think you’d like him. He’s more the stay-at-home-and-read type, which suits me just fine.
How about you? Settling back into things?
— Hermione
Hey Hermione,
So you’re seeing a Muggle, huh? That’s brilliant. Tom sounds like a decent bloke—and honestly, if he makes you happy, that’s what matters.
As for me, things are back to normal here. Lots of dragon-wrangling, as usual. I’ve been trying to shake off the whole Natalia thing, but it’s harder than I thought. Not because I miss her, exactly—just... the way it ended. Or didn’t end. I hate loose ends. But what can you do?
I’ll admit, though—your letters help more than I expected. They remind me there’s more to life than just dragons and fireproof gloves. So thanks for that.
Any more Puffskein-related incidents lately, or is Harry finally safe?
— Charlie
Hi Charlie,
I get what you mean about loose ends. It’s the not knowing that drives you mad, right? But I hope you don’t let Natalia’s disappearing act sour you too much—there’s no rule that says the next person will be like her. Not that I’m trying to push you or anything, of course. Relationships can be... tricky. Sometimes slow is better. That’s what I’m learning with Tom, at least.
Things at the Ministry are still busy, but no more Puffskein disasters, thank Merlin. Harry’s hair is safe for now. Ginny’s moved on to teasing him about something else—I think it’s his reluctance to redecorate their flat.
How about you? Have you had any time to relax between wrangling dragons? I keep saying we could use someone like you at the Ministry. You’d be a legend here. Just think about it, okay?
— Hermione
Hey Hermione,
Yeah, the not knowing is the worst part. But you’re right—it’s not worth holding on to. I’m trying to let it go. Trying being the key word there.
I’ve been keeping busy with the hatchlings, but I’m starting to think you’ve got the right idea about simplicity. A quiet life sounds more appealing these days. Maybe I’m getting old. Or maybe I just want something that makes sense.
And you’re not wrong—I have been thinking about your offer. A change of scenery doesn’t sound half bad. Dragons are great, but they don’t exactly make for good company. Maybe it’s time I looked for something more.
We’ll see.
Take care, Hermione. And thanks again—for everything.
— Charlie
Hi Charlie,
It’s funny, isn’t it? How the things we thought we’d never want start to sound more appealing the older we get. Simplicity, stability... maybe even staying in one place for a while. I guess it’s all about finding the right balance.
I think the Ministry would suit you, you know. And if you ever decide to come back, I’ll make sure there’s a spot waiting for you.
In the meantime, take care of yourself. Write me anytime. I always look forward to your letters.
— Hermione
And so the letters continued—winding their way through spring and into summer, each one a lifeline stretching across the distance. As the weeks passed, their conversations grew longer, more personal, filled with stories and thoughts they hadn’t shared with anyone else.
What surprised Hermione wasn’t just how easily they’d fallen into their rhythm—but how much she missed him, more than she thought she should. Even on the days when Tom was perfectly kind and attentive, Charlie’s letters lingered in her mind—his sharp wit, his steady presence, and the way he made her feel seen, even from miles away.
It wasn’t something she could explain, not even to herself. All she knew was that she looked forward to every letter, waiting for his familiar handwriting to appear like clockwork.
And with each envelope, she found herself wondering—more and more—what it would be like if Charlie Weasley wasn’t so far away.
Ginny Weasley sat cross-legged on the couch in Hermione’s flat, cradling a cup of tea that had long since gone cold. The warm, familiar scent of parchment and lavender filled the room, as it always did here—comforting, but tonight it did little to ease the restlessness curling in Ginny’s chest.
Across from her, Hermione was chattering on about her latest date with Tom—something about a quiet dinner at his flat, followed by a lively debate over some Muggle novel Ginny had never heard of. She kept her expression neutral, a polite smile plastered on her face, but inside, her thoughts whirred with quiet discontent.
It wasn’t that Ginny had anything against Muggles—far from it. She adored her dad’s obsession with electric plugs and rubber ducks. But the thought of Hermione settling down with Tom... it felt wrong. Not because Tom was a bad person—Ginny was sure he was perfectly nice—but because Hermione wasn’t made for “nice.”
She needed more than nice. She needed someone who understood her, challenged her, kept up with her—and Ginny knew, in her gut, that person wasn’t Tom.
“Tom sounds nice,” Ginny said at last, carefully choosing her words.
Hermione smiled warmly. “He is. It’s... refreshing, honestly. No magic drama, no complicated histories. Just... simple.”
Ginny took a sip of her cold tea, resisting the urge to grimace. Too simple, she thought. It wasn’t that she didn’t believe Hermione wanted peace and quiet right now—Hermione had been through enough to deserve some calm. But Ginny knew her better than anyone. Hermione thrived on challenge, on passion. This thing with Tom? It might feel good in the moment, but Ginny could already see the cracks forming.
“Still,” Ginny said casually, setting her cup down, “I wonder if it’ll be hard in the long run. You know... not having magic in common.”
Hermione’s brow knitted slightly, a flicker of defensiveness rising. “It hasn’t been an issue so far.”
“Maybe not yet,” Ginny said with a shrug, shifting in her seat. “But what about later? What if you want more, and he can’t understand it? Or worse—what if he doesn’t even try?”
Hermione opened her mouth to argue, but Ginny pressed on, her voice gentle but deliberate. “You’ve built your whole life around magic—your work, your friends, everything. That’s a huge part of who you are, Hermione. And Tom? He’s not even a part of that world.”
Hermione’s expression flickered—just for a moment, a flash of hesitation. It was subtle, but Ginny noticed it. Good. All she needed was to plant a little doubt.
“I just want you to be happy,” Ginny added, softening her tone. “You deserve someone who understands every part of you. Not just the books and cleverness—someone who gets what it’s like to live this kind of life.”
Ginny let the words hang between them, letting Hermione stew in the thought. That drunken deal between her and Charlie was still ticking away in the background, and Ginny was determined to see it come to fruition. But not if Hermione got too entangled with Tom, the convenient distraction. She needed Hermione close enough to realise what she really wanted before the year ran out.
Ginny gave Hermione a sympathetic smile. “I’m not saying Tom’s bad. I just think... Maybe you’re trying to make it fit because it feels easy right now. But easy doesn’t always mean right.”
Hermione sighed, dragging a hand through her messy curls. “You sound like Fred.”
Ginny laughed lightly, though she was far too focused to be distracted. “Well, maybe Fred’s onto something for once.”
Hermione fell quiet, her gaze drifting toward the window, her thoughts already spinning. Ginny recognized that look—it was the beginning of doubt, of second-guessing. Perfect.
Ginny stood, brushing imaginary dust off her jeans. “Anyway, I just wanted to say it. I love you, Hermione, and I want you to have the life you deserve. Not just a quiet one. The right one.”
Hermione gave her a tired smile, though Ginny could see the uncertainty lingering behind her eyes. “I’ll think about it.”
Ginny leaned down, wrapping Hermione in a quick but firm hug. “That’s all I ask.”
As she pulled back, she caught the flicker of indecision still shadowing Hermione’s expression. Good. That’ll do for now.
The leaves crunched under Hermione’s boots as she wandered through the park, the crisp breeze pulling at the edges of her scarf. Bare branches swayed above her, and scattered jack-o'-lanterns grinned from porches, their flickering light casting long shadows against the dusk. Children, already buzzing with excitement, raced ahead of her in their costumes, their laughter trailing like echoes on the cool autumn air.
Tom was gone.
They had ended things two nights ago.
There had been no shouting, no dramatic exit—just a shared recognition that what they had wasn’t going to last. They’d sat at his kitchen table, mugs of tea in hand, the silence between them as familiar as it was final. She hadn’t meant to hurt him. She had tried to explain it the best way she knew how, even though the words hadn’t come easily.
“It’s not that you’ve done anything wrong,” she had told him gently, her fingers tracing the rim of her mug. “You’ve been... wonderful. But I just don’t know if this is it.”
Tom, always calm and kind, had given her a sad smile. “I’ve been feeling the same,” he’d said, without anger or bitterness.
And that was it. No tears, no accusations—just the quiet unravelling of something that had never quite come together.
Now, two days later, Hermione found herself wandering through the familiar paths of the park, trying to make sense of the dull ache lodged in her chest. It wasn’t heartbreak, not the gut-wrenching pain she had read about in novels. It was softer than that—quieter. Like the weight of an unspoken disappointment, a loss not for what they’d shared, but for what she had hoped it might become.
She had liked Tom—really liked him. He was kind, funny in that dry, understated way she appreciated, and endlessly patient in ways she hadn’t realised she needed. But liking someone wasn’t the same as loving them. And as the weeks slipped by, doubt had settled in, like a persistent whisper in the back of her mind:
What if this isn’t enough? What if he’ll never be part of your whole world? What if you’ll always feel like something’s missing?
She had ignored the questions at first, brushing them aside like leaves on a windy path. But they had grown louder—especially after that conversation with Ginny.
Tom had offered her peace, but it had been a small peace. Their life together was easy, but it was... limited. She tried to imagine a future where she spent years balancing two separate worlds—one magical, one not—and the picture had started to fray at the edges.
She thought about the moments she’d caught herself holding back parts of herself—not out of shame, but because it had felt easier that way. Easier not to have to explain the intricacies of magic, easier to leave pieces of her life untold.
And that was the thing, wasn’t it? She didn’t want easy. Not really. Not in the long run.
She wanted something bigger. Something that felt expansive and challenging and a little bit messy. Something whole.
She sighed, kicking at a stray leaf on the path, her breath rising in white clouds in the cold air. She hated that she felt relieved. It didn’t seem fair—not to Tom, and not to herself. She had cared about him, and he hadn’t done anything wrong. But the truth was undeniable: she had started pulling away long before they ended things. And that made her feel guilty, too.
What if she was being selfish? What if she was chasing an impossible idea of what love was supposed to feel like?
Her steps slowed as she reached a bench near the pond, its surface rippling under the soft breeze. She sat down, drawing her coat tighter around herself, letting the cold settle into her skin. She had spent so much time chasing the idea of peace—but now that she had it, it had felt like settling.
What if there was no such thing as the perfect love?
She leaned her head back against the bench, watching the orange and pink streaks of the sky melt into twilight. The deeper, quieter part of her—the part she tried not to listen to too often—felt relieved that she had ended things.
And that relief felt like a betrayal. Not just to Tom, but to herself.
She hated the way doubt crept in now, whispering that maybe the life she really wanted wasn’t something she could find in a tidy, uncomplicated relationship. And maybe it wasn’t fair to drag Tom through her own indecision, hoping the pieces would magically fall into place.
As much as it hurt, she knew she had made the right choice.
Hermione pulled out a letter from her pocket she had received that morning but hadn't opened yet since she had been dealing with the thing with Tom.
Hey Hermione,
How’s life treating you? Things here are steady—mostly hatchlings and some wild-eyed interns who think working with dragons is a breeze. Wish I could say things were more exciting, but it’s been a lot of the same lately. Not that I mind. I like the predictability—makes the chaos easier to handle.
Anyway, thanks for the last letter. It really helped, more than I realised. And I mean it—your letters are the best part of my week. Out here, there’s a lot of time to think, and it’s good to feel connected to something that isn’t scaly and fire-breathing.
What about you? How's Tom? Have you finally found the one to settle down with?
— Charlie
Hermione folded the letter carefully, tucking it back into her coat pocket. Charlie’s letters always had a way of grounding her, even from miles away. He never pressed, never pried—just offered her the space to be, without expectations.
She thought about his question— Have you finally found the one —and smiled wryly to herself.
Charlie wouldn’t judge her for ending things with Tom. If anything, she suspected he’d understand.
The sky was turning darker now, and the children had scattered, their laughter fading into the distance. Hermione stood, brushing off her coat, and began to make her way back toward the park’s entrance. The ache in her chest still lingered, but it felt lighter somehow, as if the autumn air had carried some of it away.
There was no perfect answer, no clear solution to what she was looking for—but maybe that was okay.
Maybe what she really needed wasn’t peace or quiet, but something real. Something with edges and challenges and depth—something that felt alive.
And as she walked, the letter tucked safely in her pocket, she found herself thinking about Charlie—not in any grand, romantic way, but in a way that felt simple and steady and right.
The kitchen at the Burrow glowed softly with the light of fairy lights strung along the rafters, their warm shimmer reflecting off the snow-dusted windows. Outside, the winter storm murmured quietly, flakes tapping gently against the glass, as if the world was holding its breath.
Inside, the house was still, everyone long since gone to bed, leaving behind only the crackle of the fire in the next room and the quiet hum of the old walls settling into the night.
Charlie Weasley sat at the familiar, well-worn kitchen table, a mug of spiked hot chocolate cradled between his hands. The warmth of the Burrow wrapped around him, seeping into his bones in a way that felt both soothing and unsettling. He’d spent so much of his life wandering—Romania, Egypt, wherever the dragons took him—but here, sitting at this table, he felt more grounded than he had in months.
And across from him, wrapped in a jumper far too big for her frame, sat Hermione Granger, her wild hair falling over her shoulders and her cheeks flushed from the cold. Her hands were curled around her own mug, and her smile came easily tonight, soft and familiar as they traded stories and laughed over shared misadventures from the past year.
“So Tom was really upset about the lack of clarity about you?” Charlie asked, his grin spreading wide as he leaned back in his chair.
Hermione let out an exaggerated sigh, rolling her eyes dramatically. “Apparently couples can't have secrets at all.”
Charlie chuckled, shaking his head. “Well, you tried. You gave it a good shot, at least.”
Hermione raised her mug in a mock toast, her eyes gleaming with humour. “And failed spectacularly. But that’s been the theme of the year, hasn’t it? Failed romances and near-misses.”
Charlie clinked his mug against hers, his grin lopsided. “To a truly spectacular string of bad luck in love.”
They both laughed, the kind of easy laughter that came only when you were with someone who truly understood—no pressure, no expectations. It felt good to be here, sitting across from Hermione, trading banter as if no time had passed.
The letters they’d exchanged all year had kept them close, but being here, with her, was different. This was better. The warmth, the rhythm, the way they just... fit. Like two puzzle pieces that had been worn smooth over time.
But as their laughter ebbed, a quiet melancholy settled between them, unspoken but shared. They both knew what it was like to want more from life—and to not quite find it.
Charlie stared down at his mug, turning it slowly in his hands. He wasn’t sure what it was about Hermione that made it so easy to talk about these things—maybe it was the way she listened without pity, or how she never tried to fix what didn’t need fixing. They just got each other.
After a moment, Charlie leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping into a more serious tone.
“You know... that deal we made last New Year’s? It’s almost up.”
Hermione raised an eyebrow, a playful smile tugging at the corner of her lips. “You remember that? I thought we were drunk out of our minds.”
Charlie shrugged, his grin lazy but deliberate. “I was mostly sober. You were the one trying to convince me that Firewhisky and pumpkin juice was a genius invention.”
Hermione laughed softly, the sound like a familiar melody. “Well, I have my moments.”
Charlie leaned back in his chair, folding his arms over his chest. “So... what do you say? Time’s almost up. Unless you’ve met someone in the last twenty-four hours that you haven’t told me about.”
Hermione smirked, her eyes glinting with mischief. “I still have six days, Charlie. That’s practically a lifetime.”
Charlie tried to laugh, but the sound came out flatter than he intended. Six days. He rubbed the back of his neck, forcing a grin to mask the strange ache settling in his chest.
“Six days, huh?” he said lightly. “You think that’s enough time to meet your perfect match?”
Hermione shrugged, her tone airy. “Stranger things have happened.”
Charlie smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. He knew she was joking—Hermione always deflected serious things with humor when she wasn’t ready to deal with them. But this time, the joke stung more than he expected.
He wasn’t sure what he’d hoped for—maybe that she’d laugh and say, “Well, I guess it’s you, then, Weasley.” Maybe that she’d stop brushing it off and take the idea seriously, just for a moment.
But she didn’t. And Charlie couldn’t tell if the weight in his chest was disappointment, frustration, or something far more complicated.
He took a slow sip of his hot chocolate, trying to shake the feeling gnawing at him. “Guess I’ll just have to wait and see, then.”
Hermione smiled warmly, her gaze lingering on him for a second too long, as if she sensed the shift in his mood but didn’t quite know how to address it.
They sat in silence for a while after that, but it wasn’t an uncomfortable silence—it was the kind that only existed between two people who knew each other well enough to be quiet together. The fire crackled in the next room, the snow tapped gently at the windows, and the world outside seemed to pause.
And yet, for all the ease between them, Charlie felt something stir in the quiet—something unresolved.
After a while, Hermione stifled a yawn and gave him an apologetic smile. “I should head home. Mum and Dad are coming in the morning, and I promised Ginny I’d help her with the Christmas pudding.”
Charlie nodded, forcing a grin that felt a little too tight. “Yeah, get some rest. It’s not Christmas until someone burns the pudding, anyway.”
Hermione stood, gathering her mug and pausing briefly beside his chair. For a moment, it felt like she was going to say something—something important.
But then she just smiled softly. “Goodnight, Charlie.”
He looked up at her, the words he wanted to say caught somewhere in the back of his throat. “Goodnight, Hermione.”
He watched her disappear toward the floo, the soft sound of her footsteps fading into the quiet. The warmth of the evening slipped away with her, leaving behind a silence that felt heavier than before.
Charlie leaned back in his chair, running a hand through his hair with a quiet sigh. Six days. She’d said it like a joke, like it didn’t matter.
But Charlie couldn’t stop himself from counting down the days in his head.
Six days left.
And for the first time in a long time, Charlie found himself hoping—really hoping—that nothing change before they ran out of time.
The Burrow hummed with life, laughter and conversation blending with the occasional bang of an exploding firework outside. Snow blanketed the garden, glowing under the enchanted lights that twinkled in the trees. Inside, the house radiated warmth—a patchwork of old friends, siblings, partners, and memories that felt stitched into the very walls.
Charlie Weasley leaned back against the worn kitchen table, a half-empty glass of Firewhisky in hand. Around him, the chaos of another New Year’s Eve buzzed on—George chasing his daughter with a stuffed Niffler, Ginny and Harry curled up in a corner, Bill and Percy still locked in some spirited debate over Ministry policies. The whole family was here, exactly where they were supposed to be.
But it was her he kept coming back to.
Across the room, Hermione Granger stood with Ron, talking animatedly about something. Her dark green jumper clung to her in a way that made her look like she was the embodiment of warmth, soft curls tumbling freely over her shoulders. She laughed at something Ron said, and even from across the room, the sound of it hit Charlie like a warm flame, kindling something deep inside him.
It was unsettling, the way he always seemed to notice her. He hadn’t meant to, not really. But it had been happening for longer than he cared to admit—maybe even before last year’s pact.
And now here they were, almost exactly a year later, and he still found himself watching her, drawn to the way she threw her head back when she laughed, the way she smiled with her whole face. Something about her had always felt like home, no matter how far away he roamed.
The night stretched on, a blur of old stories and good-natured teasing. And just like last year, the two of them ended up alone in the kitchen, the bottle of Firewhisky between them half gone. The hum of the party carried on without them, distant and unimportant, like background noise to a conversation that had been waiting all night to unfold.
Hermione swirled the last sip of her drink, a crooked smile pulling at her lips. “Well,” she said with playful resignation, “looks like I’ve failed again. Still no grand romance before the New Year.”
Charlie gave her a teasing grin, though his heart beat a little faster in his chest. “A real shame. We had such high hopes, didn’t we?”
Hermione snorted, nudging his arm. “Did we, though?”
He chuckled, nudging her back. “Alright, maybe not high hopes.”
The banter was easy, comfortable—but under it, something heavier lingered, as if both of them were circling a conversation neither of them wanted to start.
Hermione raised an eyebrow, her brown eyes glinting with mischief. “Six days, Charlie. I gave it my best shot. No mysterious suitors swooping in to steal me away.”
Charlie grinned, though the ache in his chest grew sharper. “No charming Muggles sneaking in at the last minute?”
Hermione shook her head, her lips curving in a playful smile. “Nope. Just you, Weasley.”
The words were tossed off lightly, but they hit Charlie deeper than they should have. The way she said just you , like he was the only constant, the only one who ever really made sense... It stirred something in him—something he’d been trying, and failing, to ignore.
He hadn’t let himself think about it too much—not really. But now, sitting here with her, the bottle of Firewhisky between them and the night stretching lazily toward midnight, all the what-ifs and almost’s came rushing to the surface.
He thought of how their lives fit together so easily, the way she understood him without needing long explanations, the way she made him feel more settled than anything else ever had. He thought of how natural it felt to be here with her, laughing and talking like they had all the time in the world.
And then, without thinking, he leaned in and kissed her.
For a fraction of a second, Hermione froze—just long enough for doubt to flicker through him, sharp and unsettling. But then, to his relief and exhilaration, she kissed him back.
It wasn’t hesitant, not the way Charlie had feared. It was soft but sure, steady, as if maybe she’d been waiting for this moment, too, without even realising it. Her hand brushed against his arm—light as a whisper, enough to send a thrill racing through him.
The world around them seemed to melt away—the noise of the party, the crackle of fireworks outside, all of it fading into the background. All that mattered was her—the warmth of her lips, the way she tasted like Firewhisky and hope.
When they finally pulled back, breathless and wide-eyed, Hermione’s expression wasn’t startled—it was something else, something playful and daring, like she was waiting to see what he’d do next.
“So,” she whispered, her lips still brushing against his, “is this you cashing in on our little deal?”
Charlie grinned, his heart racing. “Clock’s ticking, isn’t it?”
Hermione raised an eyebrow, her smile curling at the edges. “You’re a bit early, Weasley. There’s still a few hours left.”
Charlie let out a low laugh, his forehead resting lightly against hers. “Reckon I like living dangerously.”
Hermione laughed—a soft, breathless sound—and the joy in it hit him harder than any kiss ever had. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And yet,” Charlie murmured, his thumb brushing over her hand, “you’re still here.”
Hermione gave him a mock-serious look, though the warmth in her eyes betrayed her. “I guess I don't have any better offers.”
Charlie grinned, feeling lighter than he had in months. “Deal’s sealed, then?”
“Sealed,” Hermione whispered, her voice full of something that felt suspiciously like hope. Her fingers curled around his, anchoring them both to this moment.
And just like that, the pact they had made a year ago wasn’t a joke anymore. It was real—tangible, and maybe even the start of something bigger than either of them had expected.
As the sound of distant cheers and fireworks echoed from the other room, Charlie’s grin widened. This wasn’t just the fulfilment of a drunken pact.
It was the beginning of something new.
And this time, Charlie knew—with a certainty as steady as Hermione’s hand in his—he wasn’t going to let it slip away.